One Fine Morning
by janeausten24
Summary: The class from PS118 is in high school. Helga is still in love with Arnold, but when Lila finally agrees to go out with him, she makes up her mind to get over him. But will she be able to get over a love she's held on to for as long as she can remember? Is there a secret reason behind Lila's sudden turnaround? And finally, when will Arnold sort out his confused feelings for Helga?
1. Chapter 1: Pursuit

**Hey guys! This is my first Hey Arnold Fanfic. The gang are all in high school. This is set as if the projected events in the Jungle Movie did not happen. I'm going to be exploring the relationships and characters of Helga and Arnold, of course, but also Lila. I'll rotate through their point of views.**

**Just as a warning: I am a literary nerd, so there are references and quotes galore in here. Embark at your own risk.**

**Lastly, I do not own Hey Arnold or the characters, obviously. If I did, there would be no need for any fanfiction, because Helga and Arnold would already be together and everyone would be satisfied...Enjoy!**

"There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired."

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

The rising sun beat through the panes of a window in New York City, casting a sharp glare of light into the bedroom within. It strained against the eyes of the girl who lay sleeping on the bed, creeping underneath her eyelids, demanding to be seen. She stirred slightly and lay an arm over her eyes in an attempt to shield herself, but the glare persisted, creeping through the crack between arm and face. With a snarl, Helga jerked herself upright and scowled at the unyielding daylight.

"Fine, you win." She snapped, swinging herself off of her bed and groping for the clothes she had thrown on the floor the previous night.

They were wrinkled-her shirt still smelled like the refried beans she'd been forced to scavenge for her dinner-and there was a dark coffee stain on one of her socks. But what choice did she have? She had outgrown nearly all of last year's clothes, and convincing Miriam to shop for new ones-or even to give her the money to do so herself-was out of the question these days. It was enough work to get her to shop for groceries before the pantry was empty.

She shrugged out of her pajamas and threw them over the chair by her desk, tugging on her wrinkled pink T-shirt and squeezing into her long-outgrown jeans, which barely reached halfway down her shins. She glanced in her mirror, trying to assess exactly how stupid she would appear to the world on her first day of high school.

"Pretty damn idiotic." She muttered to herself as she surveyed her reflection. Her short jeans covered stick-like legs and hips, their tightness exacerbating the meagerness of her curves. Her plain pink shirt, falling in an uninterrupted sheet over small, childlike breasts, contrasted almost comically with her darkly disapproving expression. Her contracted eyebrows met in the center of her forehead, dark and forbidding, over blue eyes which were the only softness in her set, angular face. Her blond hair, ruffled by sleep, stuck out in two messy pigtails from the sides of her face.

"Oh well." she said, smiling a little at the mirror as she caught sight of her book of Sylvia Plath poetry on her bed stand. "I guess you're going to tell me that you are not cruel, only truthful. You'd be right, there. It's not your fault I look this way." Her face sank slowly into a frown at these words. "But it sure as hell isn't mine, either."

Averting her gaze from the reflection, Helga stalked out of her bedroom and towards the front door, pausing only to run a brush several times through her unruly pigtails and to grab her backpack out of the hall. She noticed Miriam in the kitchen as she walked by, her head on the table, an empty bottle of vodka in her outstretched hand. Experience had taught Helga not to try and rouse her- not to think about how much she had been drinking-and not to care. With not so much as a backwards glance, Helga walked out of her house and slammed the door shut.

The morning was crisp and clear, and the wind blew pieces of unkempt hair into her eyes and mouth as she walked. She blew them back out of her face impatiently, bowing her head and scuffing her feet along the sidewalk. After a block, Helga stopped and checked her cracked watch. She had a few minutes before her scheduled pickup time-a few minutes to compose herself before the school-year began.

High school was a subject of great anticipation for some, and great fear for many. Phoebe was thrilled to be able to take more advanced classes; Rhonda was desperate to prove herself to the older girls; Gerald was intimidated by the jocks with whom he would now have to compete; Eugene was ingenuously excited to begin what he perceived as "the next new adventure;" Harold was steeling himself to appear tough, even amongst the tougher, more practiced bullies; Stinky was frightened to death of being jeered at for his slowness. And Helga? How did she feel?

Helga let out a long, deep sigh and watched the traffic trundle by. She didn't know how she felt about high school. The older students, the classes, the teachers, held no fascination or trepidation for her. She was master of any situation, and she cared very little for the novelty of the new school in that regard. As far as she was concerned, high school was no different than middle school and elementary school-there was work to be done and people to be ignored or associated with as she chose. There couldn't be any difference for her.

And yet.

Wasn't there?

Helga's fingers closed on the golden, heart-shaped locket which she still wore, hidden underneath the wrinkles of her shirt. She wrapped the cold chain around her thumb and closed her eyes.

_Arnold._

The beautiful, football-headed boy who was both caring and insensitive, understanding and naive, considerate and cruel, yearned for and completely inaccessible; Arnold, the boy who was all that she both adored and abhorred-the boy whose very name evoked such ecstatic pleasures that almost-almost-made up for the unbearable pain which inevitably, inexorably, accompanied them.

What would the new school-the expanded student body, the inevitable separation of the tight-knit class which they had until now been constantly thrown together with-mean for her chances with Arnold? Would she ever be given the opportunity to look upon the face, to hear the voice, to jealously watch the step of he who was her pain and her pleasure, her misery and her pride-who was her everything?

Helga opened her eyes and glared at her own reflection in a puddle at her feet. _Her chances with Arnold. _Who was she kidding? How many years could she spin herself the same pathetic hope? How long would she cling to a future which would always be beyond her grasp? When would she finally accept the futility of dreaming and yearning and working towards a boy who had long since proved his own indifference to her? Could she ever rid of herself of the desperate longing which day by day had grown less and less likely, more and more desperate?

A passing car drove through the puddle, flecking Helga's shirt and face with grey water. She swore under her breath and stepped back from the curb, releasing the locket and roughly wiping her face with the back of her hand. For a moment she stood there, lost to the world around her, surrounded by the hopeless dejection that filled her every pore.

As she removed her hand from her eyes, the school bus stopped in front of her. The doors shuddered open, and she stepped on, eyes cast down, sinking into the first available seat with hardly a glance at anyone else. Only when the bus had resumed its motion, and the eyes of the occupants had slid away from the newcomer, did she dare to search for him.

She heard his voice before she saw his face. He sat three seats ahead of her, laughing with Gerald, his face turned away from her so that she only saw the back of his head. Her heart rose into her throat as she looked at him, spellbound by the messy parting of his blonde hair, entranced by the timbre of his laugh, which, even though his voice had deepened slightly over middle school, still retained that boyish, light-hearted quality which she had always loved.

It's hardly any wonder that I can't rid myself of you. Helga thought. Who could ever resist you? She continued to watch him, hungrily surveying all she could see of him, noting every slight change in his appearance, until the bus made an abrupt stop several blocks later, and she was compelled to look up.

A girl with red hair, tied into two braids, stepped on board. She wore a light green dress and an carefree smile which heightened her inherent, almost tangible femininity. Helga watched her as she walked up the aisle. She watched Arnold's back immediately straighten at the sight of her, watched his head turn to meet her eyes, watched as a pitifully eager, disarmingly hopeful look spread across his face-and all of a sudden her insides had turned to dust, and venom was coursing through her veins, scorching and searing the underside of her skin. She had to look away. She tried to stare fixedly out the window, trying as hard as she could to ignore the pain stabbing at every part of her, but she could still hear him-and she sat, trapped under the heady influence of his voice, desperately willing herself not to feel.

"Lila," he said breathlessly, every word a knell to Helga's heart.

"It's ever so nice to see you Arnold." she replied, pausing to look at him.

"You too," he responded, his tone betraying his excitement. "Are you looking forward to today?"

"Yes," she replied. "Very much." And without waiting for a reply, she said, hurriedly: "Well, I'll be seeing you around."

She made to move, but he spoke again, stopping her once more in her tracks. The bus rumbled forwards.

"A few of us are going to meet up tonight, to go see a movie after we're done with school. Do you want to come with? I'd-I'd really like to see you there."

Helga thought she could hear Gerald muttering "Mm, Mm, Mm" under his breath. As if Lila had caught the hint, she said, hesitantly, "I'd love to Arnold-ever so much. But I told Sheena and Nadine that I'd meet them after school. Thanks, though Arnold."

Again, she tried to start forward, and Helga closed her eyes, willing her to leave him with all her might-but Arnold, wildly looking for any excuse to retain her conversation for even a minute longer, said, quickly: "But maybe another time soon, Lila?"

A barely discernable sigh escaped Lila's lips. Her smile momentarily faltered. "Maybe, Arnold." She said hesitantly, and without waiting for another interruption, she moved down the aisle.

As Arnold slowly turned towards the front again, the hunched line of his back betraying his disappointment, and Lila sank into the seat opposite her, Helga pressed her face into the window, trying valiantly to hide the emotion which forced her to turn away from them. The love and jealousy which had plagued her every waking moment at nine years old had only intensified as she grew older. They tormented her at every turn, a constant throbbing headache which clouded her every thought, threatening to overwhelm every breath she took. She was helpless in the face of them-they ruled her every action.

Although she couldn't trust herself to look, she listened hungrily, desperate to hear Arnold's voice, to gauge the real extent of his disappointment. She heard Gerald speak first.

"Man Arnold," He said, his exasperation evident, "When are you going to give it up?"

"Give what up, Gerald?" Arnold said evasively, picking at his jeans.

"You know exactly what I mean." Gerald said, sounding even more annoyed. "This obsession of yours, when are you going to accept that she's not interested and move on?"

"I can't do that, Gerald." The suppressed pain in his voice tore into Helga like salt rubbed into her wounds. "I know I've got a chance-and if I do, how can I give up?"

"You're delusional, my friend." Gerald said skeptically. "Come on, Arnold, how many times can the girl say no before you'll believe her? Let's face it, she even liked Arnie better than you back in elementary school, what does that say for your chances?"

Arnold remained silent, fumbling with the folds of his plaid red shirt.

Gerald, made uncomfortable by the lack of response, said, trying hard to be patient: "Look, I didn't mean it that way, Arnold. You're a great kid. I don't understand why she won't go for you, but facts are facts, and the fact is-" He grabbed Arnold's shoulder, and made him turn towards him. "She just likes you, man. Nothing more."

"I know." Arnold said quietly.

He shrugged Gerald's hand off his shoulder and stared resolutely down at his feet again. He sat, silently, trapped in thoughts of Lila, and himself, and everything that he believed, one day, could be.

Lila stared disconsolately out the window, watching cars slug along the road in the early morning traffic. She could see her own bleak expression reflected in the dark window-she counted the 6 freckles which stood out against her milky white skin, glancing over the stiff red braids which framed her face. Her eyes caught the plaid green sleeves of her dress, and her mouth dipped into a frown. Her country dress. _Quaint_, the girls had called it. Just as they saw everything about her to be-_quaint, adorable in her cute little country style. _But Arnold had told her she was quite the city girl now.

Arnold.

She sighed, a short, tired, disappointed little sigh, as she thought of him. For years now she'd tried to push him away from her, tried with all her might to assure him that she could never return what he hoped for. And yet he stuck to her, like the admirably stubborn and hopeful boy he was. It was beyond her nature to be outright rude to him. It would have hurt her to even forgo her customary niceness towards him. She tried, in her own, quiet way, to rebuff him with disinterest, to prove her indifference through commonplace friendliness-but he still seemed to think there was hope. He was a very nice boy, but she was sure she could never feel that way about him, even if there was no question of-

Lila blushed a little, feeling the heat creep up into her face and around her ears at the thought of him. Of Arnie.

Perhaps it was hypocritical of her to be annoyed at Arnold's constancy, when she herself had never wavered in her love for Arnie since their first meeting 5 years ago. But surely it was a different case! Arnie had loved her once. They were made for each other-no girl could ever love, or even appreciate him as much as she could-and did!

To be sure he hadn't exactly been the perfect picture of constancy, but he must have returned to her side after he was so rudely and completely rejected by Helga. Hadn't he told her, later that day, that it was nothing, just a passing attraction? And every time she had seen him since, hadn't he acted like the Arnie of before, spending time with her, talking and laughing with her, accepting her presents and smiles and attention? Time and distance hadn't changed her opinion of him one bit, except to make her love for him even stronger, so how could he, who was so infinitely stronger and better than she, possible change? Oh how she wished he would come again to the city...she could see his perfect face again, hear his voice, feel once more assured that his feelings for her hadn't changed, despite the months they had been forced to be separate…

Almost as though her silent plea had been heard, a voice floated back to her from a few seats ahead.

"So when IS that wacked-out cousin of yours coming to visit?" asked Gerald.

Lila held her breath, hoping against hope that her desire would be answered.

"Pretty soon, actually." Arnold replied, and Lila's heart leaped with joy. Arnie would be coming! Her Arnie would be coming! "His school is year-round, and he has a break coming in the middle of october. He'll visit then."

October! A whole month away! Oh how could she bear waiting so long?

"Just as long as you tell me when he's here so I know when to avoid your house." Gerald said, yawning. "If he's still as much of a label-reading freak with a gum fetish that he used to be."

Lila blushed for Arnie's sake. They couldn't possibly understand him as she did. They couldn't know what a deep, considerate, thoughtful personality he had. But-was her dear Arnie changed? Could he change in all those things he loved best about him? Would she recognize him, her darling, her only, the captain of all her hopes and dreams?

"Some things don't change, Gerald." Arnold said feeling a bit awkward. He still was a little uneasy about letting his friends insult Arnie all the time, especially when they mentioned his gum fetish. "But I think he's gotten a little less antisocial. Last time I talked to him he rambled on and on about his new girlfriend Sarah-"

Had time gone still? Or was she trapped in the moment, frozen, watching as the rest of the world travelled on, sickeningly, around her? All Lila could hear were those words, reverberating inside her eardrums:

Sarah?

Girlfriend?

Arnie?

Her world-her carefully constructed fantasies, all her hopeful dreams-had been struck down and were crumbling around her. She couldn't see, she couldn't breathe-all she could do was sit, mutely,listening to those accursed words echoing over and over and over inside her head. For a moment, she couldn't even feel. Could it possibly, possibly, possibly be true?

She heard Gerald's astonished exclamations as though he were a hundred miles away, and she wished she was alone-not alone in her bedroom in this city, but alone on her old farm, alone with the fields and her horse and the sun and her numbness and-It couldn't be true, it couldn't!

She couldn't understand it. They had never officially gotten back together, but hadn't everything he said and did proved that his love was hers? Hadn't all the time they spent together meant something? Up until this moment she had been perfectly convinced that he loved no one but her-so how, how could he now have a girlfriend?

The bus rumbled to a stop, and the people around her were getting up, ready to leave, but Lila hardly knew where she was. She felt dizzy and sick, and this first day of school, which she had been anticipating all summer, was suddenly more than she could handle. How could she go on? How could she go forward, happy and unaffected, and suffer through that entire, endless day without raising suspicion about how badly she was hurt?

But she'd done it before, hasn't she?

She'd hidden all of her woes under a shining naivety, suffocating her pain under layers and layers of charm. She'd done this before-oh, how many countless times had she hidden her emotions before! And if she could do it then-then by God, she could do it now. She had to.

So slowly, painstakingly, Lila put on her mask. She smoothed back her hair, wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, and forced her lips to curve into her signature, hollow, carefree smile. When her turn came, she slid her backpack over her shoulders and walked up the aisle. Head held high, eyes shining, perkiness in every step she took.

Icy shards of pain piercing her all the way down.

**I hope you liked it! The reference to Sylvia Plath was from her poem, "The Mirror."**


	2. Chapter 2: Endless Disappointment

**This chapter gives more information about the context in which I set this story, as well as a greater insight into how Helga and Arnold have been feeling about (and acting towards) one another since the FTi incident five years ago. I hope you'll enjoy it! Please review, I'd love feedback!**

"Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed."—Alexander Pope.

Arnold's tread was heavy as he followed Gerald down the aisle of the bus, weighed down by the thousands of hopes and disappointments which had pressed in on him for the past half hour. Half-formed thoughts and warmed-over flashes of desire skidded through his mind, colliding in confusing tangles of joy, pain, and fear all at once. Always, the anticipation which coursed through his veins. Always, the thundering beat of blood in his ears, magnifying the tumult into a deafening roar inside him. Always, that ever-present _wanting, _lurking behind it all and propelling every emotion to dizzying speeds.

And always, always, always—there was her.

Resplendent against the torrent, her glowing face and shining eyes beckoning him, demanding to be claimed as his own. Her sweetness permeating his thoughts like an exotic perfume, her exquisite laugh echoing like a tinkle of glass, clearly through all the noise. A sparkling, gleaming vision which lingered as though burned into the back of his eyelids.

Lila.

How could he help loving her, this goddess, this angel, this idol of his dreams?

The early morning sun glared against Arnold's eyes as he descended the steps of the bus. He paused at the bottom, shading his face, momentarily blinded.

"Hey Arnold."

Gerald stood waiting several paces ahead of him, arms folded.

"Just got the sun in my eyes." Arnold muttered, blinking a few times, watching the white flashes slowly fade from his vision.

He started forward to join Gerald, but as several people brushed past him, he was struck by a sudden idea. Lila was still on the bus. He could wait for her to come out and walk her to class—he could find out where her locker was—they both had first period English, so he'd have an excuse to sit beside her—perhaps those would be their assigned seats—maybe they'd even be partners for their first assignment and—

"Arnold!"

Without realizing it, Arnold had stopped in his tracks and turned back to look at the trickle of people issuing from the bus. He swivelled around guiltily.

"Are we doing this or what?"

Gerald sounded annoyed, as though he knew exactly who was occupying Arnold's thoughts and resented it—as though he knew it was a choice between the two of them.

"Gerald, I—" Arnold began helplessly, but his friend cut across his explanation impatiently.

"Whatever, Arnold." He said shortly, half-shrugging and walking swiftly away without him.

Arnold looked after him for a moment. Gerald couldn't understand. He'd never been in the same situation, could never have felt the way he did. Everything had always been secure for Gerald; his love had been satisfied, his desires met, even before he was old enough to be capable of either. Phoebe had always been there for him, appreciative, accessible. He could not know what is was to grasp for something just beyond your reach, straining and exerting yourself towards a future that you just _knew_, someday, must be yours for the taking, beset by endless hope and desperation until—

She was there. Arnold saw her out of the corner of his eye, and he whirled around to look her in the face. The sun lit her radiant, smiling face into brilliance. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't hear over the pounding in his ears—he could not stop looking at her.

"Lila!" He said, his face breaking into a grin, stepping towards her and trying with all his might to marshal his thoughts into order over the racing of his heart. "Lila, I thought we maybe could—"

She walked straight past him.

Without a word.

Without so much as a glance of recognition.

She hadn't betrayed a single sign that she had even heard him speak. She walked with her face glazed into a smile, her eyes fixed unswervingly ahead. She had ignored him. Totally and completely.

Arnold froze mid-stride, stunned. He stared blankly at the place where she had just been, his mouth still open, his words shrivelling on his tongue. Had she just ignored him? Had she done it...on purpose? Did she just see him and decide he wasn't worth her while, and that the best thing to do was to pretend he didn't exist? What had he done wrong? What had he done to deserve her disregard, her absolute avoidance?

The sniggers of unfamiliar passersby snapped him out of his reverie. Waves of humiliation and frustration washed over him, drowning his shock. What right had she to give him the cold shoulder when he had done nothing wrong? Why did she have to make him look like a complete idiot in front of all these people? He wasn't going to stand here like a gaping fish—he wasn't going to let her make him look ridiculous. Gritting his teeth, Arnold forced himself to look away. He gripped the straps of his backpack, determined to turn around and walk towards the school as though nothing had happened—but as he spun sharply around, he heard a yelp of alarm and felt his bag collide, hard, with someone's sharp, bony shoulder.

Arnold immediately turned to face the person he had hit, automatically setting a placating hand on their shoulder, an apology forming on his lips—and found he was face to face with Helga G. Pataki.

For an instant, they stood there, their eyes locked. Arnold felt a sudden surge of embarrassment which he couldn't place, and warmth flooded his cheeks. Perhaps, in that moment, he had felt her stiffen beneath his touch; perhaps he had heard the hastily stifled gasp, the sharp intake of breath as she looked at him; perhaps he had seen the flash of unguarded emotion which had momentarily lit up her eyes with fire—but then, the instant passed. Her face set into familiar, violent dislike, etched with lines of loathing.

"Watch where you're fucking going, Football Head!" She snarled at him, elbowing past him and stalking off, rigid with fury.

As he watched her go, Arnold forgot about Lila. He forgot about the mortification which had threatened to overpower him just seconds before. It was as though his mind had been cleared of everything except the girl before him. He watched her shove through the crowd, hurling curses and insults at everyone in her path. He watched her wrench the front door open and disappear inside.

She hadn't fooled him.

He knew. Perhaps he had always known, deep down in the recesses of his subconscious, that behind Helga's mockery and rage and bullying, she hid a passion, an obsession—no, a love for him of a strength he had never encountered in anyone else before. But it had taken the FTi incident—the shocking revelation at the top of the tower—to make him realize what he knew. And that knowledge had completely floored him.

The unexpected awareness of her unconditional, frighteningly powerful emotions, as well as his sudden comprehension of her conflicted behaviour towards him throughout their entire childhood together, had nearly overwhelmed him. That day hadn't left him unmarked; it had forever changed his perception of the past. And, of course, of Helga herself.

_His perception of Helga._

What was his perception of Helga?

He couldn't pinpoint exactly how he felt about her. The conflict in his feelings towards her had increased a hundredfold after her confession to him. She had reverted back to her normal, irate self relatively soon after that day, determined, it seemed, to forget that it had ever happened, to remain behind her facade even though he now knew it for what it was. For the past several years she had kept a cold, livid distance between them. The constant, bullying attention had ceased, replaced by a front of furious silence and pointed, unspoken disgust. Her outburst today had surprised him—it seemed almost a window into their past. He had become so used to her new, distant treatment of him that he had almost forgotten the passionate Helga, who seemed almost to breathe flames with every word and look. He ought to have been relieved by the change in her attitude towards him; it should have been so much easier to ignore her dirty looks now that she didn't constantly demand his attention with her insults.

But he felt no relief. He couldn't ignore her.

He knew that this new, cold, remote Helga was just another layer of her intricate disguise, that it was her way of throwing cold water over the fervent feelings he knew she still concealed. Hadn't she betrayed them again today? Hadn't she betrayed them every day through her exhibition of her enraged, if silent, detestation? He was immensely frustrated with her inability to accept her feelings, angry at her for continuing to hide behind a mask of hatred and harshness. He hated her for her attempts to deceive him.

And yet he couldn't harbor only those feelings towards her. He knew now, more securely than ever, that there was a softer, caring side to her, even though she cloaked it in cruelty. He felt a kind of tender pity towards her for the pain she put herself through, for the hopeless longing that he knew she felt so strongly. His pity always came to the surface over the chaos of anger and frustration he felt every time she tried to prove herself indifferent, reminding him of the emotions he could not help but sympathize with. His pity made excuses for her behaviour, forgiving her for every display of dislike. His pity had led him to offer her a way out of her confession, permitted her to once more build up the barriers she'd spent years constructing, whose integrity one impulsive declaration had compromised forever. When he considered it all, he truly believed that this pity was his strongest feeling towards her.

But there was something else skulking behind all of this, a feeling Arnold didn't fully understand. A feeling which made him recall, even now, every impassioned word she had torn from herself that day—a feeling which prompted him to remember, in perfect detail, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her lips on his—a feeling that, unnamed and unfamiliar, Arnold tried hard to push aside. It discomforted him. It confused him. And he didn't need any more of either emotion, especially with regards to Helga.

So, sighing a little, Arnold shifted the weight of his backpack on his shoulders and walked on towards his new school.

Alone.

. . .

Days like this made Helga hate herself.

Inwardly cursing herself, she had to force herself not to sprint as she pushed through the crowds, trying to get as far away from Arnold as possible. She swore loudly at the people in her way, trying desperately to relieve herself, but the outbursts only made her career even more wildly out of control. She could feel his eyes on her back, watching her, knowing only too well everything she was feeling—and it was all because of her idiocy, her complete lack of control. She had to bite down hard on her bottom lip to prevent herself from crying out in agony.

It was an eon before she reached the school. An eternity before she slammed the door shut, screening out the view of Arnold behind her. She had to find somewhere that she could be alone, somewhere where she could unleash some of the mounting, excruciating rage building up inside her. She looked frantically around, looking for anything, anything at all—and found a supply closet to her left. She jerked open the door and lunged inside, heedless of the strange looks she attracted on all sides, and slammed it closed. Still holding the handle tightly shut behind her, she slid down the door slowly.

"Fuck." She whispered, shutting her eyes tightly, seizing a fistful of hair with her free hand and tugging at it so hard that pinpricks of tears prodded against her eyelids. She could taste the blood pooling from her lip into her mouth, acrid and metallic. "Fuck."

She'd screwed up. In one look, in one, unrestrained, clumsy attempt to shield herself, she'd screwed up everything that she'd worked towards for the past five years. She'd worked so hard to govern herself. She had struggled so fiercely to learn self-control. She'd taught herself so many painful lessons in restraint, learned to abide the stabs of a hundred knives of jealousy without a grimace, learned to keep her silence even when a thousand voices screamed out their pain inside of her. She'd borne her crushing fears, her terrible anger, and her ballooning ecstasies, and always, always, the sheer force of her will suffocated their expression in her words or actions. And what had she done now? Oh god, what had she done?

She had succumbed. She had given in to the irresistible sensations he evoked when he touched her. She had betrayed—so clearly had she betrayed it in her face!—those forbidden feelings which she thought she had finally learned to confine to her heart. They had burst their bounds, and for a moment, they had shone out for all to see. And then, to cover up the lapse, she had once again yielded to the temptation to lash out. She'd even sweared at him—sweared at her darling, her innocent Arnold, for whom she could just as soon have died. She'd thrown up her cover of ferocity and offensiveness, a cover she had vowed never to take up again. A backfiring, self-destructive defense—for Arnold, and Arnold alone, understood it. He could strip it off and perceive, plainly, the naked, trembling vulnerability underneath.

She had given him that power the day she had told him everything.

And how desperately had she lived to regret that day!

Helga hid her face in both of her hands, moaning softly into her rough, callused palms. She had ruined everything that she had pledged to herself that dreadful day. How could she have allowed these moments of weakness? Hadn't she learned, from that fateful hour, how much pain and misery follow unreasoned impulse? Hadn't she discovered that when you tear your secret hopes out of your chest and expose them on your sleeve, your fears are also realized, and they come, like vultures, to peck at your arms in punishment for your ludicrous expectations?

She'd been a fool that day. She'd told herself that a hundred—no, a thousand times over. In her panic, in her frustration, she lost control of herself. She had exploded with the pent-up love of so many years, exposing every hope and fear of her life to him. During that moment, she had felt relief: exhilarating, delicious relief. For that moment, she had allowed her passion to carry her away, into his arms, up past cloud nine.

But he didn't love her back.

What did she expect?

She had always known that he didn't love her—his constant fawning over Lila was evidence enough. How could he, given the total lack of encouragement that her behaviour had given him for loving her? She ardently, fervently desired his love, hoped for it against hope—but she had always known that her hope was unlikely to be answered.

And yet in giving in, madly, to the urge to confess everything, she had thrown her vain hopes in the air and had welcomed her supreme fear into reality: the prospect of Arnold knowing what he meant to her, but not caring in return. He had made that much clear to her. He hadn't answered her with any of the passion and elation she had always dreamed of eliciting from him. He was shocked, but not pleasurably. The only eagerness he demonstrated was in his longing to get away from her. And of course, her dear, sweet, unfeeling Arnold, made uncomfortable by her vulnerability in her unrequited love, had offered her a way out.

And in her mortified pain, she took it.

That night, she had wandered the streets, restless with self-loathing, voiceless with the dull, aching depression which sat like a stone in her chest. That night, she understood the full scope of what she had done. That night, in her savage humiliation and throbbing unrest, she made a resolution.

She had to undo the steps she had taken. She couldn't erase what she had told Arnold, but she could erase every trace of her confession from her actions. Now that he knew that her open, loudly-voiced, too-often-proved dislike of him was just her way of hiding her real feelings, she would have to, in turn, hide that aspect of herself. No longer would she be obnoxious and rude towards him; no longer would she allow her love to find relief through the attentions of a bully. He knew what she was hiding, so what better way to convince him that there was nothing in it than to cast off her disguise?

It had been difficult, extraordinarily difficult, at first. She found herself throwing spitballs against her volition, spitting out cruel words with every breath. Every feeling built up to enormous pressures when she denied herself a vent, and every so often they came whistling out, like steam from a boiling kettle. But every time something escaped her, she was met with Arnold—his face no longer full of anger, as it used to be, but with concern, and worse, pity. The inexpressible shame brought on by his pity drove her even more determinedly in pursuit of external indifference.

It had taken her several months to perfect her new image, to have those lessons in self-possession. She no longer threw spitballs or tripped him up the stairs. She no longer spent each day planning new ways to embarrass him. No taunts, no attention-drawing insults, escaped her lips. She avoided him as much as possible, and on the whole, she succeeded. When their paths did cross, or she was forced to speak, she did so with studied coolness. She frigidly repelled his conversation, and relatively soon, he stopped attempting it. She no longer smarted under the sting of his pity—she had believed, truly believed, that he had been taken in by her iciness, that he no longer suspected her of the catastrophically powerful love that ran through her veins, a roaring current on the underskirts of her glacial aloofness.

Until today.

A bell rang in the distance—a five minute warning for her first class. Helga unclenched her fists, calming herself, ridding herself of all signs of agitation. She had to be calm. She had to be master of herself. She had made a mistake today, but it didn't mean that she had to fall apart. She was Helga G. Pataki. She was made of stronger stuff than that, and she had prevailed over her emotions when there was even greater provocation than this.

She could do it. She had to.

Helga stood up carefully, smoothing down the wrinkles of her shirt and tugging down at her pants. She closed her eyes, took one, long, deep breath, and opened the door of the supply closet, walking steadily towards her first period English class, a faultless picture of serenity.

No one ever would have guessed what storms raged behind her composed demeanor. But then again, everyone always seemed to underestimate her ability to feel.

She was met by a tall, brunette woman at the door of her classroom—presumably, her new teacher. Helga scrutinized her warily. She looked quite young, and rather pretty, with thick dark hair and warm brown eyes. She was neither fussily over-professional nor conspicuously underdressed, which was a good sign; Helga scorned teachers who always dressed as though they occupied a much more important position than they actually held—or worse still, when they attempted to bond with their students by dressing plainly, and could easily be mistaken for a high school student in a crowd. She wore no distinguishable makeup, and no jewellery save for her simple gold earrings. She smiled at Helga as she walked up, holding out her hand to shake.

"Hello." She said. "And what is your name?"

"Helga Pataki." Helga replied, taking the offered hand and shaking it briefly.

"It's very nice to meet you." The woman replied. Helga noticed that she didn't speak with the same condescension that many of her other teachers did, and this immediately recommended her. "My name is Ms. Kenna. Please take a seat anywhere, we'll be starting soon."

Helga nodded and continued into the classroom. Some thirty students were already inside, chatting idly amongst themselves, a sea of mostly unfamiliar faces. Except, of course, for the blonde boy sitting in the second row, whose face immediately caught her eye. He was looking down at his desk, rifling through the notebook in front of him, so he didn't see her walk in. But even if he had, he would not have been able to detect any sign of her furiously pounding heartbeat, nor would he have seen any change in her countenance, despite the sudden frenzy which erupted in her mind. Her movements betrayed no agitation as she walked up the classroom, her eyes fixed straight forward. Her face was impassive as she passed him. And as she finally sat down, in a seat that was as far away from Arnold as she could possibly get, she even wore a tiny, quiet smile.

"Welcome, class!" Ms. Kenna said, walking briskly to the middle of the room as the bell rang. "Welcome to your first day of Honors English 9! I had the great pleasure of meeting most of you as you entered the classroom today, and I hope we will all get to know each other very well over the course of the next year. I am very excited to have the opportunity to teach all of you. If you learn anything from me this year, I hope that you learn to love English—everything about it, from the language itself to the great works of literature—as much as I do. I believe that is the best lesson that any teacher can impart to their students, so I will strive to kindle your interest."

She stood at the front of the classroom, beaming down at all of them, her enthusiasm palpable in every word. Helga liked her for it. She had no use for people who smiled, incessantly and inanely, determined to be pleased with the world, but she always felt a connection to people with true enthusiasm, a true passion for what they did. She had been disappointed with all of her junior high English teachers; she had been frustrated by the dullness of their lectures, the insipid, lacklustre monologues about this theme or that. Perhaps—just perhaps—this one would share the fervid admiration that she herself had for literature. Perhaps she could actually learn something from her class this year.

"So, in view of the fact that I aim to inspire you," Ms. Kenna continued, taking out her clipboard, "I am going to begin the school year by reading you a truly wonderful poem. Yes, I know," She said, smilingly knowingly, because she had heard the low groans and mutters from the class, "Boring, sentimental, confusing, cheesy poetry. I know how most of you feel about that. But like I said, I'm hopeful, and I want you all to walk out this door on the last day of class and be able to face poetry without all this moaning and groaning."

There were some laughs at this. Helga felt her interest in her teacher increase. So they were going to study poetry, were they? Was this a teacher who could understand—really, truly understand—poetry?

"So," She continued. "I'm going to read you 'We Wear the Mask,' by Paul Laurence Dunbar, a personal favorite of mine."

Helga smiled at this. So she did have some taste—she didn't choose to read them "The Raven," or "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day," the stereotypical English class poems which Helga had grown sick of through innumerable repetition.

Ms. Kenna cleared her throat, tilted her clipboard towards her face, and began.

_"__We wear the mask which grins and lies,_

_It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,_

_This debt we pay to human guile,_

_With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,_

_And mouth with myriad subtleties."_

A girl in front of Helga shifted downwards in her seat, and suddenly she had an unhindered view of Arnold at the front of the classroom. He was resting his head on one of his hands, running his fingers idly through the short strands of his blonde hair. Ms. Kenna's words faded into the periphery of her consciousness as she looked at him.

It was safe to look at him now, for the attention of everyone was directed towards the front of the room. It was safe to look at him now that he couldn't suspect her notice of him. It was safe, now that indulging in her most avid admiration would not mean a sacrifice to her most zealous pride.

He was too beautiful.

She could never be safe from him, even if in the eyes of the rest of the world she was impassive. Just as she had been the only one to completely delve into the deep mysteries of his character, a feat won by her ceaseless, discerning observation, he was the only one who could navigate the subtle canals of her masquerade and, ultimately, strip away the mask that was her only safeguard from wretchedness.

But she must always hide behind her deceitful camouflage, for the heart palpitating in her chest would be torn and bleeding for as long as his was free of her.

And that eventuality, she knew, could only live in the dungeons of her deepest hopes.

So sighing, she savored the stolen pleasure of watching Arnold, her eyes tracing every memorized feature—engraving him further into herself.

_"__Why should the world be over-wise,_

_In counting all our tears and sighs?_

_Nay, let them only see us, while_

_We wear the mask."_

Arnold listened only partially to the words of his teacher as he sat, gazing at the red-headed girl who sat three seats to his right. She sat, unmoving, her face expressionless. She had made no greeting or sign to him—or indeed, to anyone—as she had entered the room. He so wished he knew what was wrong, desperately hoping that he hadn't done something to offend her. What could he have done to deserve such a chilly reception, if he had done something?

The derision of those standing around him that morning suddenly surfaced in his memory, and Arnold's face tightened at the thought. He had been so obvious, so terribly obvious about what he was feeling—everything was written in his face, and his actions, for all to see! He remembered Gerald as well, dubious and annoyed, at what he perceived as a baseless hope.

Why did he need their scorn and cynicism?

Perhaps...perhaps it was better for them not to know. Perhaps he ought to make a greater effort not to bandy about his emotions for all to see. Maybe this was what had turned Lila against him—had she been put off by his overeager, his over-apparent attention to her?

If he was going to try and change his attitude towards her, he would have to start now.

So, heaving a great sigh, he slowly retracted his gaze from her. He looked down at his desk, trying resolutely to clear the chaotic desire to feast his eyes on her from his mind. It was going to be very difficult to restrain himself, but he had to do it.

For his own good.

_"__We smile, but O great Christ, our cries_

_To thee from tortured souls arise._

_We sing, but oh the clay is vile_

_Beneath our feet, and long the mile,_

_But let the world dream otherwise._

_We wear the mask!"_

Lila sat, unseeing, oblivious of the noise of the classroom or the voice of Ms. Kenna. She could see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing except the fact that something in the grand, colossal scheme of things that she called her world had gone dreadfully, woefully, unaccountably awry. She wanted to scream and cry out, but she could not. She could only sit in this frozen, numb, torturous silence.

Waiting for the gears of time to shift forward again, pushing her, against her volition, into the cruel future.


	3. Chapter 3: Illusion

**A/N: Hello again! I had fun exploring Helga and Arnold's feelings for one another in the last chapter, so now I will pay tribute to the complex emotions of another favorite character of mine, Lila. The action between these three will begin soon, I promise-these massive doses of introspection and flashbacks serve to set up the plot which follows! Enjoy!**

"We cast away priceless time in dreams, born of imagination, fed upon illusion, and put to death by reality."  
Judy Garland

The shrill ring of the school bell broke through Lila's reverie, a sledgehammer on a frozen sea.

It shattered the silence, breaking it into a thousand icy shards of cruel truths which pierced through her numbness like poison-tipped arrows, infusing her with a sharp, sickening sense of realty. She was assailed by agonizing realizations of the dreaded present, suddenly overwhelmed by the onslaught of stabbing pain which pressed at her, relentless and unyielding. Her surroundings focused into sharp clarity around her, and the sudden departure from blank, indistinct haziness seemed to tear into her senses, blinding and deafening her. A throbbing headache and a painfully pulsing heartbeat rose up out of the dazed confusion of her thoughts. Feeling—aching, excruciating, fierce feeling—awakened in her again, and she was once more at its mercy, trapped between the venomous jaws of her acute suffering.

The people around her were moving, shuffling books and papers in and out of their bags, their voices rising in a cacophony of jarring, strident noise. They were leaving—her class was over, and she could see students spilling outside onto the school lawn through the window. Was the day really over? Had she been so unaware, so lost to time that so many hours and scenes had flashed by without her notice? She could scarcely recall moving between classrooms; she had only vague recollections of the subjects and teachers and students she had seen, obscure and blurred behind the stunned shock which had dominated her perception and clouded her awareness.

And once again, the brutal reality which had subjugated her forced itself into the forefront of her mind, and she was swept beneath its crushing waves of pain.

"Lila, aren't you coming?"

It was Sheena. She had stopped by Lila's desk, watching her as she sat, motionless, desperately trying to overthrow the forces which bore down upon her, struggling violently to put on a semblance of composure. She made no answer.

"Lila? Is anything the matter?" Sheena asked, her voice tinged with concern, troubled with Lila's lack of response.

"Everything's—fine." Lila managed, fighting to speak despite the torturous, choking grip at her throat. "Just—fine."

"You're awfully white." Sheena said, leaning over and looking closely at Lila's bloodless face. "Do you feel sick?"

Lila attempted to make a denial, but no noise came out of her dry mouth. Why couldn't she respond, now, when she wanted concealment so terribly? Where was the smile, the nonchalant attitude which had never before forsaken her? Where had her shield gone, her one defense against exposure?

"There's something wrong, I know it." A jolt of panic ran through Lila—could she guess? Did she know? Oh god, what could she do, how could she avert this impending disaster? Sheena's face was creased with lines of worry. "I'm sure you're not feeling well. I think you should lie down."

"Yes, yes!" Lila gasped, seizing at this opportunity to misdirect Sheena's concern. "Yes, I'm feeling sick, I need to lie down, you're right, I'll just—yes, yes, that's it."

Sheena was now more concerned than ever; she was becoming more and more convinced that Lila was suffering from a dangerously high fever, that some alarming illness was driving her into incoherence.

"You should go home right away then." Sheena said, staring at Lila anxiously as she slowly stood up. "Never mind about meeting me and Nadine. We can do that later. You need to make sure you feel better."

"You're right." Lila repeated, focusing all her energies in remaining upright, refusing to stagger. She couldn't betray her weakness any more than she already had done.

"You're right." Her voice strengthened with the reiteration. She could feel the detachment happening—she could feel herself separating her expression from the storms which raged inside of her. They were retreating into her, slowly but surely, retracting the strongholds they kept in her appearance and sinking, grudgingly, down beneath the surface, beneath notice.

"You're right." She could feel the misery drain from her face, leaking into the inner recesses of her heart, dripping into a whirlpool of wretchedness which seethed underneath layers of muffling, silencing fortification.

"You're right." Barely a whisper now, but her tone was indifferent, her voice free of shakiness or instability, because the job was nearly complete. She was shutting the door which stood between her inside and outside, a door which the sheer force of her willpower had always kept from remaining ajar.

"I'll be fine." She was walking out of the room, a placid smile already forming on her pallid face, endeavoring to make her eyes sparkle, closely monitoring the spring in her gait.

"I'll be all right." She repeated the phrase again, responding to Sheena's restated apprehensive inquiries. There was a terrible pounding on the door, a furious demand for release, which echoed insufferably through Lila's mind, echoing in her ears and twisting her stomach into hard, tight knots, but she still had a firm grip on the handle—the gate would not be breached.

"Thanks for walking with me." Her eyes were bright, her expression was serene. What did it matter if there were shrieks of agony rattling her very core, ravaging her being with agony—her countenance would not change, her appearance would not alter. She would sit on the bus, as calmly as if all was tranquil, as if there was nothing wrong, because no one must know how much she suffered—no one must gain access into that most guarded aspect of her life. No one could know.

"Goodbye." The bus was going, going, gone, and Lila turned to face the door of her house, the vacant smile still framing her face, her features the reflected image of unaffected happiness.

She unlocked the door for herself and shut it behind her. She set her backpack down lightly on the floor and meticulously folded up her jacket. She took off her shoes and placed them neatly on her shelf in the closet. She walked slowly up the stairs, counting each step, anchoring herself to the steady progression of numbers.

It wasn't until she was safely in her room that she finally let go.

It was worse—far more powerful, far more chaotic, far more heart-wrenchingly painful–than she expected. The release exploded out of her in wild, terrifying, gasping sobs, nearly suffocating her with unadulterated intensity. Anguish coursed through her blood with the power of an electric shock, blasting every vein and artery into blind, torturous submission. Her despair expanded frighteningly inside her chest until she felt that she would burst open, torn apart by the raging tempest which knew no boundaries. It was as though her misery, her desolation, her fury were punishing her for her restraint, savagely seeking revenge for their forced confinement. They took control of Lila with a vengeance, finding desperate relief in the convulsive shaking, the shuddering breaths, and the rivulets of tears which raced down her face, soaking her bed with salty bitterness.

It was some time before Lila had any control over her paroxysmal breathing, before the flow of tears had been stemmed enough for her vision to return. It might have been hours—nay, it felt closer to days—until the tremors which had unremittingly wracked her body had subsided. She felt as though the eruption of agony had aged her, aged her by years and years. She felt drawn, and drained, and devastatingly exhausted when she had shudderingly, painstakingly, raised herself from her prone position. She was still shaking when she was finally able to stand.

The miserable reality which hit her as soon as the tumult had passed was even more painful than her desperate weeping.

Arnie didn't love her.

Oh how she wished now that she could once more find refuge in tears! How she wished she could return to her terrorizing, blinded passion, back to the uncontrollable excesses of grief, if only to stave off this moment of reflection which was too hard to be borne—the moment when she was forced to confront the terrible truth which ripped at every part of her like a serrated dagger!

Arnie didn't love her.

What then, what then had she been living for? She had toiled ceaselessly for him, throwing herself into his glorification with every ounce of her strength, living and breathing for a deity she had spent so long in creating. Every particle of faith that she had was invested in him, in Arnie; every single instance of hope she had allowed herself to entertain for the past five years was his. Every part of her was grounded in the belief that Arnie—her glorious, her unsurpassed, her beloved Arnie—was hers, and she was his—that they belonged to one another. She had defined herself by everything he thought or dreamed or believed about her, and was she now to find that she was nothing to him, nothing at all?

She wasn't worthy of his love.

Cursed, cursed, cursed fool that she was! To believe so firmly that she was good enough for him, to contentedly hold fast to the idea that she was his everything! How vain, how blind, how foolish had she been to believe that she could ever be his equal? Had she tricked herself, fooled herself into an idea that he regarded her with the same reverence she had always felt for him? How desperately, desperately blind she had been, to convince herself that she was the object of his love!

"Arnie, Arnie..." Lila moaned, shoving her face into her hands, bitterly resenting the longing which overflowed her heart at the sound of his name.

She loved him! She loved him to a point further than expression could reach, more powerfully than any description could endeavor to capture. He was her everything, he was the sun which lit up every day and the moon which guided her through darkness—he was every constellation in the stars which shone in the heavens of her every dream—so why, why was the world so cruel? Why couldn't he love her when she meant so much to him? She had to deserve his love—hadn't she earned it through the years of unswerving loyalty and overwhelming, fervent adoration for him?

She couldn't have so far deceived herself! Everything he had said and done—every moment they had spent together for the past five years—had contributed to the proof of his love. She hadn't been grasping at straws. All of their time together couldn't have been nothing—it meant something—more than something—an infinity of somethings, a promise of a future which stretched endlessly before her, a future she had built on the unshakable foundation of her trust in their mutual love and—oh, how could it be true? What had gone so unspeakably, unimaginably wrong?

There was one way to find out.

Lila staggered forward and launched herself at her desk, heedless of the dull ache which thudded in her temples at her sudden movement. She rifled through her drawers feverishly, straining to see clearly through the dizziness which spun her thoughts into confusion. Where had she hidden it? She had to see it, she had to know—she had to understand where everything had fallen apart—

There it was. Nestled between sheaves of lined paper, the purple notebook sat, in the same pristine condition as it had been when she had bought it, five years ago. No dog-eared corners, no loose fringes, no untwined spirals were evident—it was a sacred book, a priceless symbol of the axis of her life's rotation. She had always handled it with the utmost gentleness.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled it out; hot, flaming tears burnt at the surface of her eyes as she beheld it. She wanted to devour its contents, desperately penetrate each page until she had learned the terrible secret which lay inside of them, dormant and hidden—but she moved slowly, warily, for fear of what she might find.

And also for the fear of what may have been missing.

_Conversations._

She had to begin at the beginning, sorting through the years they shared together week by week, month by month, until she could find the point of crisis. She had to hunt for the day when everything, unbeknownst to her, had fallen apart, searching for the point when the comfort she had wrapped around herself had begun to grow threadbare, longing to understand how her security had unraveled without her having taken the slightest notice until it sat, in a desolate heap, at her feet.

_December 2nd, 1998_, she read, as she opened the first page. _I met the most wonderful boy in the world._

The unrelenting tears rolled down her cheeks as Lila gazed at the curlicued writing of her nine-year-old self, remembering as keenly as if it were yesterday the ecstasy, the otherworldly joy which had ballooned inside her as she wrote these words. She could almost taste the sweet happiness which had permeated her body like a delicate perfume.

_His name is Arnie. From the moment I saw his face, I knew he was the only one I could ever love._

She had jumped so trustingly, so innocently, into her own pit of hell that she almost hated herself, almost despised the only ineffable feeling she had ever experienced in her life.

_I know—I just know, I just undeniably know—that he is going to be part of my life forever._

She had never wavered in her conviction that Arnie was inextricably linked to her, never doubted that they would always find a way to be together. Until now.

_I want to somehow consecrate the time that I spend with him, so I can feel like he's with me, even when he's not here. I want to be able to remember every wonderful word he's uttered, so I can savor them, over and over again, and because of that, never really be parted from him._

And she had—countless times, when she was lonely, when her longing for him seemed to burst the bounds of her endurance. She had read, and reread, and reread every word in this notebook until she could almost feel him beside her, repeating those words that she had loved best of all, continuously reassuring her of the love which was her mainstay.

_So as best as I can, I will here record the time we spend together, beginning from the very first time we said hello._

And what followed were pages upon pages of narrative, meticulous descriptions of years of conversations, faithful copies of dozens of letters, excerpts from every phone call they have ever had. Every exchange had been lovingly numbered and enumerated, written and pored over until each had become part of herself, ghostly pledges of her unfaltering love for him. Lila read through the pages which had bespoken so much reliance, so much faith in him, sprinkling salty tears over the revered words and looks that she had shrouded in transcendent glory. She had taken so much pride in this book, venerated it as a symbol of that sacred bond which held them together-and to what end?

The notebook was nearly full. She traced her finger down the table of contents she had written, in the fond expectation of continual perusal, stopping at the last conversation—number 148. She remembered the expectation which had bubbled up inside her whenever she saw it—two more until 150! Only two more! As if it were her life's aim, a goal to be reached!—and a wave of inexpressible desolation rode over her when she remembered the intoxicating anticipation she had felt at the prospect, how she had tenderly awaited the day she could transcribe the 150th conversation into her notebook, how wonderfully proud and overwhelmed with happiness she would have been, to have known that they had come so far.

And it had all come to nothing.

Nothing.

"Did it really mean nothing, Arnie?" Lila whispered urgently, her heart full of an unutterably poignant sadness as she flipped through the book vehemently, looking miserably down at the pages she'd sanctified with years of devotion.

_It didn't mean anything._

The words on the page caught at her attention, demanded it, as if they were an answer to her despairing cry. Lila wiped furiously at her tears—who had said that? What did it mean?

_"Lila, it didn't mean anything."_

Arnie's words—Arnie's own words, spoken on that one other dreadful day—conversation number 34—December 7th, the first, and only other time she had ever doubted his love for her.

The day came flooding back to her, clearly and vividly. She remembered his sudden apathy, her confusion and fear. She lived once more the crushing shock, the sinking depression which overpowered her when he told her that he had found someone else. She was pulled into the memory of that afternoon—how she had walked home, mute and unseeing—how she had retreated into herself, lost herself in the safety of her room—how she had sobbed, bitterly over the pages of her notebook—how she had so very nearly given up—how she had almost convinced herself to throw it away, to cast the devastating pain from her life—

How she had heard the doorbell ring.

_Who was it? Who could possibly want her at this point in the afternoon? Her father wasn't going to be home for another few hours, all of her friends were at baseball practice—so who could it be?_

_Was it Arnold? Coming again to try and comfort her? Didn't he know how painful it was for her to see him, how dreadful it was to have him pressing in on her, suffocating her with his kindness when all she wanted was to be alone? Didn't he understand that she knew what his real meaning was—that he still had feelings for her—oh, didn't he know that they oppressed her, that they made everything so much worse?_

_The doorbell rang again._

_Or could it be—or was it possibly—her heart beat quick at the thought, fluttering madly, slamming against her ribcage at the idea. Was it—Arnie?_

_She wanted nothing more than to see him, to hear his explanation—what if he had changed his mind? What if he found he really didn't care about Helga? Oh how much she wanted to see him, to know where she stood! Lila sprang to her feet and raced to the door—but on the point of opening it, she stopped short._

_But what if it wasn't Arnie? What if she went down, and it was a busybody from her class, mocking her with insincere sympathy? She had been forced to endure the comments of Rhonda and Sheena and all of the other girls all day, with their sarcastic lamentations, their hateful, affected concern._

_"Lila seems really depressed. She took being rejected by Arnie really hard."_

_"She's such a sweet, sad little thing. I feel so sorry for her."_

_"I don't know what she saw in that creep. But if you ask me, he's just perfect for Helga."_

_"Poor thing. She looks so crushed. To think that she had all her little hopes set on such a strange boy!"_

_"It's probably for the best, though, girls. Imagine if they continued to go out together. She'd be stuck to that weirdo for life. A little disappointment now will spare her misery in the future, let me tell you."_

_She couldn't face any of them. She couldn't let them see the state she was in. She would never again expose herself to the ridicule of everyone around her, no matter how much pain she was in. She had learned that lesson today. She was never going to betray herself again._

_But—if there was even the smallest, remotest chance that it was Arnie, the tiniest possibility that she could regain that bliss which she had taken too much for granted—wasn't it worth it?_

_The doorbell rang once more, and it stirred Lila to action. She tore down the stairs, shaking all over, hastily wiping the tear streaks from her face, ready to face all the pain and scorn and humiliation in the world, if only for his darling sake._

_One glance through the windows told her it was Arnie._

_She didn't give herself time to compose herself—what if Arnie got impatient and left? How could she jeopardize her one chance of renewal? She sprung at the door and threw it open._

_"Arnie!"_

_She meant her voice to be stronger, but the word came out like a strangled gasp, half questioning, half exclamatory. Her eyes were open wide—all she could do was stare at him, breathless, her chest constricted, waiting in desperation to hear the words which could mean either the reincarnation or the doom of her frantic hopes._

_"Hi Lila."_

_Hi? Was all he could say hi? What did this mean? Why didn't he immediately tell her what he was about, coming here? If he came to apologize, why wasn't he already down on his knees? If he came to deliver the final death blow to her dreams, then why didn't he do it, why didn't he end this dreadful suspense?_

_"What are you doing here, Arnie?"_

_Once again, the strength in her voice failed her. She meant to sound decisive, to spur him into speech—but it came out as a quaver._

_He considered her a moment, and then said, without much expression in his voice, "I came to ask you something."_

_"What could you possibly have to ask me?" Lila whispered. Oh why couldn't she be stronger, why couldn't she assert herself? Isn't that what he valued, isn't that what he wanted? Wasn't that why, today, he had gone to Helga, and left her alone with her weakness?_

_"Well," he said, still continuing with his normal tone; he didn't seem to be affected by Lila's obvious distress. "They're showing Evil Twin II at seven today. I'm going to see it again. Do you want to come with me?"_

_Just like that. No explanation, as if the actions of today hadn't happened, as if everything had always been normal between them. Tears welled in Lila's eyes in spite of herself and spilled over, riding down her cheeks. How could he do this? How could he do this to her without an apology? Without trying to justify himself? Without telling her why he had dumped her?_

_"Arnie!" She choked out, crying in earnest now. "I—just—don't—understand—why—why—"_

_He was looking at her curiously as she cried. She could barely speak, and she so wished that he would say something, anything, anything at all—that he would stop staring at her, just now that she was again proving her weakness, clearly demonstrating how pathetic she was._

_He said nothing. For a while they just stood there, Arnie with his hands in his pockets, Lila struggling to control herself, to regulate her emotions enough to make articulate speech. At length, she managed to say:_

_"Why did you leave me?"_

_"You mean today at lunch?" He asked, his tone indifferent. He shuffled his feet on the pavement, and then shrugged._

_"Yes!" Lila said furiously, anger rising up to replace her sadness. He just stood there, unsympathetic, as if he didn't care about her, refusing to say anything important about what he was doing or how he felt, as if she didn't matter! "Yes, I mean at lunch today! You dumped me, you told me you'd 'found someone else,' and then you went right over to Helga and told her that you were in love with her!" The rage began to pound in her head, suffusing her entire body with a rigid, incensed vigor. Her voice rose to a higher and higher pitch as she continued, her eyes alight with fire. "After all that time we spent together, after everything you told me about how much you loved me, I just—I just can't understand it! Why did you do it, Arnie? Didn't you care about how I would feel? And why are you back now, now that you've got your ever-so precious Helga, why are you back here? After all that we've been through today—I thought you'd just went and forgotten all of the times we'd told each other that we'd always be together and—"_

_"It didn't mean anything."_

_His interruption jarred her from her rant; she could feel her anger deflating, folding itself back into its container, shock rushing in quickly to replace it. She didn't understand, could it possibly mean—_

_"Lila, it didn't mean anything."_

_His voice was insistent. Lila caught his eyes—they had such a warm, pleading expression. She felt an exhilarating sense of sweet contentment numb her senses as she watched him, dazedly allowing herself to be once more drawn into the thrilling hold he possessed over her. Helga...hadn't meant anything? He hadn't really fallen for her?_

_"It didn't?" She breathed, hardly daring to believe it. "Then—then Helga? Then today? You don't really love her?"_

_He only nodded._

_That was all that she needed._

_Her doubt vanished as he looked at her through his eloquent green eyes, all of the anger and resentment she had built up evaporating on the spot, displaced by exquisite, absolute happiness. So he didn't love Helga—it had been a mistake, a passing fancy maybe. All that mattered now was that he was here—he wanted her back—she could once more live in the castle in the air that she had built for the two of them. He was hers!_

_"So will you come with me?"_

_And he looked at her so anxiously, so eagerly, that she could not help but give in. What did it matter that they had miscommunicated earlier that day, what did it matter if for that short time she had been miserable? He still loved her—he still loved her—by God, he still loved her!_

_She had never known joy until this moment, and now her path was clear—there would only, ever, be Arnie for her, and she for him; the two of them would make their way through life together with no one to stand in their way, and no matter what obstacles or challenges would lie before them, they would make it through, because with Arnie, every day would be a day in paradise..._

"Paradise." Lila murmured brokenly, staring blankly down at the page before her. "I thought I was in paradise."

_The only paradise is paradise lost._

Who had told her that? Why did she have to be reminded of that now?

_Paradise lost._

It was so easy to believe that there were no paradises in life, so easy to accept that all that she was destined for was trials and suffering. Her mother, her home, and now Arnie, all were lost to her now. What did she have left?

Nothing.

It just made it worse, made everything so much worse, to know that all of the small paradises—her closely-held hopes, her only safeguards against depression—were all doomed to failure, damned before they had a chance to make her happy—damned before they had even fully formed.

Maybe they had always been lost.

"Did I mean anything, Arnie?"

There was no reply. The room was still. There was no ring at her doorbell. There was no boy standing on the pavement outside her house, an apology on his lips, ready to make amends.

But there had never been an apology.

"Did I ever really have you, Arnie?" Lila said quietly.

She was met only with silence.

The violent storm which had so forcefully gripped her had, for the moment, died away. The winds which had shaken her, blown her world inside out, had subsided. But the dark clouds still hung thickly over her, a constant, foreboding threat, casting her entire being into a silent, restrained despondency.

Lila stood up firmly. Her body no longer shook, and her eyes were dry. She walked over to her desk and placed the notebook back inside its hiding place. Wordlessly, she took out a piece of lined paper and sat down, pen in hand.

Did she really want to be assured of that certainty which plagued her existence? Did she want to dive headlong into the reality which had rendered her miserable? Did she really want to force herself into a corner from which she could not escape-where no hope was possible?

She didn't want to feel any more pain than she did now—she didn't want to have excesses of mortification heaped upon her. If reality—the cold, hard truth—was painful and mortifying, then that was that. But she had to know.

After all-what was the point of hope, when your dreams had always, and would always, avail naught?

So, heaving a deep, steadying sigh, she raised her pen and began to write.

_Dear Arnie..._

**I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks to everyone who reviewed the previous chapters; your support enables me to keep writing. As always, I would be thrilled to receive your feedback. I await it eagerly, so please write. I don't want to have to relate to Lila and her vanquished hopes any more than I have to :)**

**The quote I used within this section was one of Marcel Proust's:**

**"The only paradise is paradise lost."**

**I also have to make sure I acknowledge UtopianPeace on deviantart for their timeline of Hey Arnold! episodes. I wanted to have a solid date for when Arnie first visited in "Weird Cousin" so that everything would make sense; I am basing any previous events I reference off of their organization. As anyone who has ever puzzled over the chronology of HA! episodes knows, it doesn't make much sense...and I am very grateful that they have made such a great effort to sort it all out!**


	4. Chapter 4: The Greatest of Strengths

**A/N: Hello again! Get ready to dive into the deep end with this part: it begins with a flashback of the FTi incident, told from Helga's POV. Just in case you get confused and think you're not reading the correct fic :) Enjoy!**

"Love and relationships are truly one of the most paradoxical aspects of being human. For it is in love that we find the greatest of strengths and the deepest of sorrows..."

-By that wonderful poet, Anonymous.

_"__You did all this for me?"_

_The words reverberated over and over in Helga's mind, evoking an exquisite, tingling bliss which seemed to flood her entire being. She cast aside all other thoughts and concerns, losing hold of her surroundings as his face swum through her memory—all astonishment and wonder as he looked at her. _

_He had never looked at her that way before. _

_ "__You love me?"_

_Strained as the words were, as shocked as his expression appeared to her at that moment, Helga could not help but relish it. She still savored the sweet aftertaste of their kiss—could still feel the soft pressure of his lips against hers, could still feel the contours of his smooth, soft face just as they had been when she had caressed them. She still held close the jubilation which had inflated and sustained her over the past few hours, threatening to overwhelm her with its dizzying, blinding intensity._

_Suddenly she became aware of Arnold, standing mere inches away from her. Her breath was sucked out her mouth in a quick hiss. The glorious vision which had dominated her thoughts was rapidly dispersed as the real, living, breathing Arnold now occupied her senses. She watched him, transfixed, her ears hungrily seeking the soft noise of his every exhalation, her eyes following the gentle heaves of his chest as he breathed. _

_He was so close. She could have reached out her hand and touched him—could have drawn him close to her and felt every beat of his heart for herself, could have risen and fallen with his chest as he breathed. She could have leaned forward and once more pressed her mouth against his, as she so hungered to do—_

_But something prevented her. A foreboding, unforgiving something stole out of the recesses of her mind, creeping in through the cracks of her passionate joy and slinking into the forefront of her mind. Silkily, it entwined itself around her thoughts._

He doesn't love you. _It whispered, and the words sent a creeping chill through Helga. _How could he ever love someone like you?

_Helga closed her eyes, endeavoring to shut out this something, force it back into the uncharted depths where it belonged—but to no avail. _

Don't delude yourself. _It hissed. _He didn't kiss you back. He didn't respond to your declarations of love...he shrunk from them.

Shrunk from you.

_The words threaded their way through Helga's heart, twisting themselves into knots, constricting her, choking her._

You gave him everything tonight. You let loose your greatest passions, your deepest fears..._The voice continued, inexorably. _And what does he care for them?

_The grip on her heart tightened. Helga held her breath, her face bloodless._

Nothing...

_Arnold had finally noticed her presence by his side. He had stepped away quickly, anxious to increase the distance between them. His face was nervous, uncomfortable—almost frightened._

You disgust him.

_He's scared of me, Helga thought miserably. He's repulsed by me._

And you can never take it back...

_"__Pretty crazy day, huh."_

_Helga could barely speak; she was too oppressed by the despair which had suddenly burst through her, coursing through the happiness she had so recently cherished, washing it away. All she could do was scramble at the only idea which presented itself in her distracted mind._

Take it back. Take it back.

_"__Yeah, we—eh—said a few nutty things back there."She stammered out, gripping her own shoulder._

_"__Yeah."_

You're nothing to him.

_His face was wrinkled into lines of discomfort. He stood before her, awkward and unnerved._

You never will be.

_"Yeah, well—uh-umm—about all that stuff I said, Arnold." Helga began, desperate to undo the steps she had taken, longing to pretend it had never happened. "I uhh-uhh—"She was a fool now. A stumbling, stuttering fool. "I mean, it was crazy talk there and—"_

_Arnold interrupted her. It was clear that he was just as desirous to get the conversation over with as she was. "Yeah, with all the excitement we just—we just—kind of..."_

_"__Got carried away?" Helga supplied fervently, praying that she could master herself enough to control the situation, to prevent the steps she had taken from escalating too far._

_Arnold looked at her steadily. She wanted to quail under his gaze, to retreat into a corner where she could hide from him—hide from reality, hide from the knowledge which gave him so much power over her. _

So much power to hurt you.

_"__You didn't really mean all that, did you?" He asked, finally. "You don't really love me, right?"_

_So this was it. Here was her opportunity, her chance to cancel out the events of that day, deny the existence of the vulnerability she had laid before his notice. She should have been ecstatic. She should have jumped at the opening eagerly, enraptured by the possibility of annulling all her regretted words._

_But she felt none of these things. She felt cold and empty._

_"__Right." She managed._

_"__You were just caught up in the heat of the moment, right?" Arnold continued, pressing her. It was as if he wanted her to make as absolute a denial as possible—as if he wanted her to object so strenuously to the truth of her confession that he, too, might believe that he had imagined it._

He just wants to get away from you.

_"__Right."_

_"__You actually hate me, don't you?"_

_Hate him? Oh God, how was she going to bear this ruthless inquisition? Hate him—hate her beloved, her darling Arnold, the only person in the world that she had ever been given reason to love! Hate him, when only minutes before she had been buoyed up to the high heavens, swept away by the power of her own ardor for him? Hate him?_

_"__Of course I hate you, you stupid Football head! And don't you ever forget it! Ever!"_

_Helga screamed these last words as a terrible, raging pain welled up inside of her. How had she tricked herself into thinking everything was going to be all right? Didn't she know that the instant she had lifted her mask she had changed everything? And now she was back, back under the disguise she despised, back to the eternal frustration of having to live out her colossal love for him through anger and bitterness—it was too much, it was too much!_

_"__Okay, Helga."_

_And she could no longer look at him. She turned away quickly and walked off, the last image of his wan, slightly smiling face flashing before her. _

_Did he believe her?_

_As she walked out of his line of vision, Helga was seized by an overpowering, crashing cascade of emotions. They racked her body relentlessly, one moment sending her into tumults of joy, and in the other, pitching her into dead-black abysses of desolation. She hardly knew why she was ecstatic, could scarcely discern the reason behind her furious anguish. _

_For hours she walked this way, struggling against the torrent of conflicting emotions she could barely place and did not dare to control. Elation and jubilation, fear and loathing, ecstasies of depression each briefly took their hold over her, mastering her, forcing her into submission. The hours were minutes as she lost track of time, hardly aware of anything around her._

_When the storm, at last, subsided, she felt hollow and spent. She found herself looking up at her own house, standing silently and imperiously over the street, casting a dark shadow over her._

_The clouds of feeling had dispersed, and Helga blinked against the clarity which was reforming in her mind. Neatly, her thoughts fell into place, order rising out of the chaos of her once racing heart._

_Arnold knew everything._

_"__Okay, Helga."_

_She knew it from the way he had smiled at her, even as she raged at him. She knew it from the gentleness in his eyes as he had offered her a way to extricate herself. She knew it from the pity in his gaze as he watched her rescind her confession._

_She had briefly, brilliantly, blinded him with that part of her which she guarded most closely, staggered him with the force of the love which, until then, had been contained. Helga knew that her love was the only thing that could ever recommend her to him. She wasn't pretty, she wasn't popular—she could in no way contend with the dozens of girls around him who daily offered their assets on display. The only thing which made her stand out against the crowd, the only attribute which made her exceptional, was the extent of her love for him. And her chance—her one and only chance to prove to him how she felt, to show him, clearly, just how much he meant to her—she had screwed up. Completely._

_"__Of course I hate you, you stupid Football head!"_

_She could have stood by her confession. She could have valiantly defended her feelings, asserted her right to love him, proven the strength of her love for him by steadfastly standing bare before him, devoid of camouflage. Her love was the only thing that could have made him love her. He should have admired her for it, been awed by her. He should have been amazed at her power to live for him—yes, she had done everything for him! She had always done everything for him! It was her chance to show him everything, to steamroller him with the earth-shattering reality of her sacrifices for him, her dauntless determination to dedicate her every breath to his betterment!_

_But she had chosen to hide, hide like the measly coward she was, retreat once again behind her mean, petty exterior. _

_He didn't admire her. He wasn't awed by her. She only showed him weakness, when she could have shown him strength._

_He pitied her._

_"__You didn't really mean all that."_

_So weak, so ashamed, that he had offered her a retreat, free of ignominy and judgment. _

_She had been given a choice. She could have kept her mouth shut and continued to live safely—or she could have dared to risk it all, to throw herself heart and soul into the pursuit of that which was most dear to her. It was all or nothing—but the few, impulsive strides she made towards her happiness had met with repulse. She had urgently attempted to retrace her steps, but there was no going back—and now, there was no going forward. She was stuck in limbo, her weakness on display, her power to act snatched away, perhaps forever. _

_She had used her chance—seized her opportunity and allowed it to fly away from her. She was down to nothing. She had no more cards to play. _

_All was lost._

"Helga? Aren't you getting off?"

Phoebe's voice tore Helga out of her memories. The bus had shuddered to a stop outside her street, and people were getting off.

"Yes, of course Phoebe." Helga mumbled as she gathered up her things and raised herself off the seat. Phoebe watched her with concern.

"Are you okay, Helga? I know we didn't get a chance to talk much today, but you've seemed pretty quiet..."

"I'm just peachy." Helga said shortly, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

"Whatever you say, Helga." Phoebe said, her eyebrows raised.

Helga glared at her for a moment. How often had she heard these words? Why did Phoebe always try to make out her feelings to be more than what they appeared to be? What right did Phoebe have to try and weasel out her thoughts when she rarely took the time to talk to her anymore? Hadn't she ceded her rights to openness when she openly shown her preference for another's company?

The driver cleared his throat. He was looking at her through his rear-view mirror.

"Got to go, Phoebe." Helga muttered, starting down the aisle.

"See you soon, Helga?" Phoebe asked, half-standing so she could still see Helga over the front of her seat.

Helga turned around slowly and gave her friend a swift, hard stare.

"Let me know when you're not busy smarming up to Geraldo." She said evenly, pretending not to notice the hurt expression on Phoebe's face as she turned away from her. "Maybe I'll have time for you then."

As Helga stepped out and walked down the street, she noticed Phoebe's downturned face pressed against the window. She didn't feel guilty about upsetting her—after all, she wasn't really upset. She had chosen Gerald over her. It was as simple as that. What did it matter that Helga had nothing, and Gerald had everything? What was it to Phoebe that Helga had no one else to share her time with, while everyone vied for his attention?

Nothing, of course.

If Phoebe really had cared about their friendship, she could have spent more time with her. She could have bothered to talk to her once in a while instead of rushing off to her precious Gerald at every chance she could get, leaving Helga standing alone and friendless. She was tired of excuses, tired of the endless stream of "I'll talk to you later" and "We'll catch up next time." There never was a next time, always just a deferral.

So it wasn't her problem that Phoebe was upset by her rebuff. It had been her choice, and she had to live with it. Besides, it couldn't have really hurt her. Phoebe didn't care about her enough for anything she said to impact her for long.

No one did.

"Miriam, I'm home."

Helga shut the door behind her and shook off her shoes, throwing her backpack against a chair in the living room.

There was no response.

_Probably sleeping. _Helga thought, annoyed. Her stomach rumbled menacingly, and for the tenth time that day, she was reminded of how hungry she was. Miriam had forgotten to add money to her school account—_again_—and she'd only had enough change to buy herself a bag of chips.

Helga stalked off to the kitchen. The sinks were full of unwashed dishes, and the table was strewn with bits of food. An open bottle of Tabasco sauce lay on its side, its contents spilled over a portion of the countertop and slowly dripping onto the floor. Helga ignored the mess; the disarray had become common enough over the past several years.

She threw open the pantry—but it was bare. The refrigerator, likewise, was empty, save for a carton of eggs and an expired jug of sour milk.

"Why do I even bother asking you to go shopping?" Helga snapped aloud, slamming the door of the pantry shut and reaching for the eggs. "You have one job for today, and you can't even manage that..."

Helga opened the carton. Three of the slots were filled with broken egg shells. The rest were empty.

"God damn it, Miriam!"

Helga threw the carton into the garbage and slammed the top of the can down, incensed.

"Where the fuck are you, anyway?" She fumed. Her insides churned loudly, demanding alleviation, heightening her anger. "MIRIAM!?"

Still, there was no response.

Helga stormed out of the kitchen and ran around the house, yanking open doors and bellowing for her mother. She needed someone—anyone—to be there—someone she could blame for the frustration building up to enormous pressures in her chest—someone who could take the brunt of her furious attack, who could ease the impossible burden of anger she carried—

But there was no one.

"Well, who needs them?" Helga spat as she made her way up to her room, her breath labored as tore up the stairs. "I don't need any of them, not my pathetic excuse of a mother, not my blowhard of a father, not my _dear_ sister Olga—"

Helga darted into her room and threw herself on her bed, still seething, her teeth set into a livid grimace. She contorted her face and dug her fingers into her pillow, squeezing it until her knuckles turned white. Her hands quivered; her entire body trembled as she lay there, shaking with an insuppressible passion.

Why did everything have to overwhelm her at once? It was more than she could bear to go back and forth between different levels of hell, ricocheting to and fro like a pinball, viciously assaulted from all sides. First her family, then Phoebe, then Arnold—

Helga buried her face in her pillow.

Arnold, Arnold...

It always came back to Arnold. She could bear the rest—she always had borne the rest—when the thought of him had sustained her. What was hunger when she fed upon the hope that she could one day claim him as her own? What was the negligence of her mother when she could recount every instance of his sweet, attentive kindness? Had she ever felt friendless when he was near her, the sunshine of his company radiating onto her, brightening every prospect?

Helga's tremors slowly ceased as she thought of him. Her clenched fists relaxed, and her body relieved itself of tension. How strange it was that the thought of him—the remembrance of those very same features which tormented her, thrusting her forward on an endless cycle of disappointed hopes—could be so comforting. How delicious it was to find solace in knowing that all her ideas of perfection were invested in one person, and that despite the cruelties and inadequacies of the world, she knew someone who had never known anything but compassion and excellence.

Wasn't that solace worth all of the suffering she had experienced on his behalf?

A sudden, poignant desire for Arnold rose up inside of her. At that moment, she needed him—needed the brilliant smile which beckoned to her in every dream, needed the soft, quiet gentleness which supported her in every difficulty. Only rarely had he been able to comfort her in person; there were only a few treasured moments in her memory in which he had really come to her aid, sought her out to ease her worries. But even when he wasn't there—even when he hadn't the slightest thought of her, nor a notion of the challenges she was buckling under—she could always find him. Without his knowledge, he had been her voice of reason and her beacon of hope, her consolation and her deliverance from care. Unawares, he had been with her throughout her entire childhood.

Helga rose off of her bed and walked to her closet, softly opening the door and stepping over the threshold.

She could always find him in here.

"Arnold..." She whispered, as she knelt down and gazed before her.

At the back of her closet, there stood a tree.

It was not a tree that you might find in nature. There was no bark on its trunk, no leaves on its branches.

But a tree it was.

Where there ought to have been a trunk, there were stacks of cardboard cylinders which reached from floor to ceiling, meticulously glued together. Branches stuck out at every interval, layered with sheets of paper—poems and diary entries, newspaper clippings and photographs hung from them in place of leaves. Arnold's face met Helga at every angle, his face frozen into his signature smile—moments stolen out of their childhood. His preschool picture giggled at her as he fiddled his blue cap in his chubby hands. A 5-year-old Arnold sat waving on a swing in the park. Arnold and Gerald grinned at her on their first day of 2nd grade. He stood at the front of the photograph on the last day of elementary school, his arms around Phoebe and Eugene. There he was, playing volleyball on a beach in the summer before 8th grade. There he was again, his hair combed back during their junior high school graduation dance, blushing slightly as he stood next to a pretty, laughing Lila—he had been happily oblivious of the sullen blonde who stood, half-concealed, her face averted, in the background—oblivious, even when she had darted out of the room as soon as she had seen him—oblivious that the chain which she had gripped so convulsively around her throat was no mere ornament, and that she had been wearing it—wearing him—for nearly her entire life, so that although he could not see her face, she could always see his—oblivious, that no matter how distant they were from one another—however far she was from his thoughts—that he was always with her.

All the years that she had spent with Arnold stood before her, a daunting tribute to her daunting love.

A poem hung in a picture frame at the very center of the trunk, supported by a very thin, very worn piece of pink ribbon. Helga didn't have to read it to know what it said. She spoke it as she stood there, her eyes closed, breathing very slowly, as though some powerful force was radiating from the tree—from those words—supplying her with strength.

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,  
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken..."

Helga could feel unwonted tears forming beneath her eyelids. Her eyes flew open; she began to blink vigorously, furious at herself for the sudden upwelling of visible emotion. She set her teeth and continued on forcefully, her voice rising, her words throbbing with intensity, determined to prevent herself from spiraling into weakness.

"It is the star to every wandering bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come;  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

She spoke these last words with such passion that her tone bordered upon desperation, and when she finished, she sank to her knees, her eyes fixed, wide and unmoving, on the tree before her. She did not stir; not a breath could be heard in that small room—but it reverberated with a sort of indefinable ringing—as though with the silent echoes of her last words.

All was the same—all was still, time itself was stagnant—as she sat before her makeshift tree.

Darkness had already fallen by the time she was finally stirred from her spot on the floor by the sound of the front door.

_Miriam. _

Helga was snapped out of her reverie immediately. She bolted upright and darted out of her closet, shutting the door behind her, casting her shrine into darkness. The anger which had erupted out of her that afternoon began to bubble feverishly in her chest; away from Arnold, away from the sanctuary of her room, there was nothing to contain it. She could hear muffled voices in the hall as she bounded down the stairs.

"Miriam, where have you been?" Helga demanded as she reached the bottom and found her mother taking off her shoes in the hall. "Why weren't you here when I came home?"

"Ohhh, _hi_, Helga..." Miriam began, drawling out the words. "Well, it was the most_ awful_ thing, really...And so strange..."

"I don't need to hear how strange and awful it was, Miriam." Helga said sharply, interrupting what she knew was going to become the start of long-winded, incoherent rambling. "Everything that happens to you is like that. So just cut to the chase and tell me what happened."

"_Well_, honey." Miriam said. "I was—well it's so hard to _explain_ it, it was just _so_ strange!" But catching her daughter's furious eye, she hastily continued: "Well, I was going to pick up_ groceries_ this morning, as you know I _always_ do on Tuesdays..."

"I can't remember the last time you actually bought groceries on a Tuesday." Helga muttered, but Miriam appeared not to hear her.

"Well at least it was _supposed _to be this morning, but it actually turned out to be an _afternoon_ grocery trip, because I—well, because for _some_ reason I was feeling a little bit under the weather when I woke up..."

Helga remembered the bottle of vodka that she had seen in Miriam's hands that morning—but she didn't say a word about it. If she went down that path—as she had tried to do, so many times before—she knew how it would end. There was never any point.

"Anyway, I had my keys, I had my purse, and I went to the car. And I was just _driving _along—" Suddenly Helga had a very nasty suspicion about where the story was going. _But no, not again, it couldn't have happened again, please don't let it have happened again— _"And then _suddenly, _just completely _out of the blue, _a pole came up in front of the car! Out of _nowhere_, honestly..."

"A pole?" Helga snapped. "A telephone pole, Miriam? You have GOT to be kidding me, Miriam, you did NOT drive the car into a telephone pole."

"Well, honey," Miriam said, fidgeting a little bit with her purse. "Like I said, it did just come out of nowhere, I couldn't exactly _help _it."

"You couldn't HELP it?" Helga said loudly. She clenched her fists tightly in a vain attempt to control the anger now rising up into her throat. "Miriam, it's been the same freaking story every single time you've wrecked the car. You just keep saying "I couldn't help it," "It wasn't my fault." Maybe if you were more than half conscious when you drove you wouldn't have this problem—"

"Now Helga," Miriam said nervously, "Now the car isn't _wrecked, _honey, it just needed some repairs. It's going to stay at the shop for a few days, and I'm just late because I had to wait for B to drive me home..."

At this juncture, Bob threw open the front door and stomped into the house, his expression stormy. Helga whirled around to face him.

"I told you this was going to happen, Bob!" She shouted at him. "I told you that if you didn't do anything, this mess was just going to get bigger and bigger, and you just didn't listen to me. How many times does she have to crash the car before you realize that we have a problem here? The woman can't drive to a grocery store without running into a fucking electric pole!"

"Watch your mouth, Olga." He barked back at her, the muscles in his face tensed. "Don't you think I have enough to handle without all this? I had to go and take precious time out of my day to deal with this, and I don't want to have to come home and listen to your nonsense. I put food on the table—I'm the reason there's a roof over our heads! You better remember that before you start telling me what _I_ am supposed to do!"

"Oh, so now you don't even care about what's going on, all that matters to you is that YOU have to take precious time out of your oh-so precious day, right? I bet you don't even know how many times her license has been revoked or how many hours of community service she's done—maybe you don't remember what they said would happen if she gets caught again—or maybe you just haven't noticed exactly how fucked up it's gotten at home ever since she took a dive off of the deep end—"

"Now Helga, really, I told you that there was nothing to worry about." Miriam put in uncertainly, but she was quickly cut off by her husband.

"Why don't you just stay out of things that you don't understand?"

"What is there not to understand?" Helga shouted back at him. She could hardly breathe, she could barely see, with the rage which came pouring out of her. "You always tell me that I don't understand, that I should stop screwing around with things that don't concern me, but you know what? Who else is there to care about it? Who else has to deal with all of the consequences of this shit? You're never home, you don't seem to give a damn about anything that's going on here or what anybody here is doing—"

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Bob bellowed at Helga. Miriam shrunk from him, pushing herself against the wall. "You don't know anything! Why do YOU have to be such a mess, why do YOU always have to be more trouble than you're worth? Olga would never question what her parents were doing! Olga would never butt in where she wasn't wanted! Olga wasn't a complete basket case who never did anything but talk back and get dragged into therapy and—"

Helga didn't stay to listen to the end of his sentence—she couldn't bear to spend a minute longer in front of them, couldn't bear to see their faces, couldn't bear to be anywhere near the people responsible for making her life a living hell. She let out a terrible shriek and tore upstairs, the deafening pounding in her ears blocking out the shouts of her father and the tremulous calls of her mother from downstairs.

She slammed her bedroom door shut and barricaded herself in, shoving desk and bookshelf and chairs against it until no one could possibly break through. The exertion distracted her from her pain, but as soon as she was done it came back in full force, and it was agony to be alone with it, agony to have it pressing in at her from all sides—so she kicked at her furniture until her toes were numb from bruising, she seized books and lamps—anything that she could reach—and she threw them against the wall, over and over again, until they all lay in thick piles at her feet. She screamed into her pillows, biting at them so hard that her teeth broke through the fabric. It was too much—it was just too much—she couldn't bear it any more, she couldn't bear dealing with the constant worry and frustration and fear—

The lease of her desperate fury seemed interminable.

And yet, as all things do—it ended. As the moon rose high in the sky, her muffled shrieks became softer and softer, until only disjointed mumblings could be distinguished from the folds of her blankets. The frenzied motions of her hands slowly stilled themselves, and her arms hung limply at her sides. And then, for a while, there was silence.

When Helga finally rose, her face was pale. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she made her way to her closet. Painstakingly, and with great purpose, she turned on the light and closed the door behind her.

The tree wavered before her unsteady gaze.

And without warning—without precedent—Helga collapsed in front of it, her entire body heaving with sobs.

It was difficult to make out what she was saying through the heavy stream of tears; she hardly knew what she said herself, she was too overcome by the torrential power of the emotion which, for many years, she had been a stranger to—but had taken hold of her at long last. Only one word was audible—only one word could be heard, repeated over and over again, in between the incoherent moans issuing from the heap on the floor.

"Arnold..."

** Thanks to everybody for reading! As always, I really hope you enjoyed it. Please R and R, we writers are lost without feedback! :)**

**The poem in the chapter is Sonnet 116, by William Shakespeare.**


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